


The Ice Queen Affair

by st_crispins



Series: The St. Crispin's Day Society [8]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Early Days, F/M, Partnership, Pre-Series, Psychology, St. Crispin's Day Society universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_crispins/pseuds/st_crispins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In The Project Deephole Affair, there's an indication that Solo met Narcissus previously in Portofino. This fills in the backstory (Illya is involved too).</p><p>This story appeared in the zine Credentials published by Nan Mack. It won a FanQ in 2008 for Best MFU Gen Story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ice Queen Affair

**The Ice Queen Affair**

_“Are you still cold?” she asked, as she kissed him on the forehead. The kiss was colder than ice; it went quite through to his heart, which was already almost a lump of ice; he felt as if he were going to die, but only for a moment; he soon seemed quite well again, and did not notice the cold around him._ \--- Hans Christian Anderson.

 

**Portofino** **, Italy** **. Spring, 1962.**

“Behold: the Ice Queen.”

Illya Kuryakin pulled the photograph from his briefcase with a playfully melodramatic flourish and passed it to Napoleon Solo who was sitting beside him. It was early morning and they’d found a comfortable shaded niche in a mostly deserted cafe on the edge of the crescent shaped harbor. Portofino’s famous Piazzetta was eerily quiet except for the cooing of pigeons punctuated by the sharp snap of laundry flapping in the breeze. Occasionally, a housewife thrust a dust mop out an overhead window. The fishing fleet had departed for the day, but the majority of the shops in the candy-colored buildings were still closed. It would be at least an hour or two before the wealthy tourists crawled out of their beds and ventured from their hillside villas in search of the perfect cup of espresso. The agents had already found theirs and the caffeine was welcome because, despite the fact that it was Saturday, there was work to do.

“A blue diamond,” Solo observed with a shrug. He cocked his head slightly as he examined the image. “Fairly large. Platinum setting. I’d say... mmmm... twelve carats?”

“Fifteen and a half. Which makes it roughly one third the size of the Hope Diamond.”

“Different color though.” The Hope Diamond, which Solo had seen in a museum several times, was a deep, rich, cobalt blue, even deeper than the sea beside them. The diamond in the photo was much paler, with only a wisp of iridescent color that made it look more like a faceted chunk of Mediterranean sky captured on the end of a simple silver link necklace. “How much is it worth?”

“Difficult to estimate. Depending upon the appraiser, somewhere between two and ten million.”

Solo whistled low. “I thought the paler ones were worth less.”

“Ah,” said Kuryakin leaning forward, eager to share. If Solo wasn’t impressed by the diamond itself, perhaps he’d feel more respect after hearing the story behind it. “This particular gem has quite a history. It appeared first in the royal treasury of Queen Kristina of Sweden when she ascended the throne in 1644. Some sixty years later, it was in the possession of a Spanish Bourbon family living in Naples. Napoleon Bonaparte acquired it during the Italian campaign and presented it to Marie Josephine in 1806. She wore it to a state ball. Then, it was lost until the early 20th century when a prominent Parisian family, attempting to repay some significant debts incurred by a n’ere do well son, placed it on the auction block. It sold for over $2 million even then. When the Nazis invaded Paris...”

Solo stifled a yawn. “I get the picture.” He was feeling jet-lagged and not a little impatient to get on with the mission. Briefings were never his strong suit.  “Where is it now?”

“In a safe, in a villa.” Annoyed, Kuryakin cut short his tale and turned in his seat to point to the wall of rock and pine trees that towered behind them. “Up there and a little to the right, just off the main road, such as it is.”

“ _Whose_ villa?”

Kuryakin selected another photo from the sheaf of briefing papers in the case. “Narcissus Darling.”

“That’s her real name?”

“It is now.”

Solo picked up the picture, examining it with care. The woman was gorgeous; there was no denying it. Even in a snapshot taken candidly and from some distance, Solo could see her skin was flawless, her pale gold hair was arranged just so, her figure was trim, and every bit of her wardrobe was chosen and worn with care to create a stylish appearance. The surveillance photo had the quality of an ad in a high fashion magazine.

Which both fascinated and repelled the agent. The beauty before him was too perfect: brittle, distant, artificial, almost antiseptic. There was not a stain or blemish in evidence anywhere; not a hair was out of place. She was more a simulacrum than a natural, flesh and blood woman.

Kuryakin noted his companion’s ambivalence and was mildly surprised. Solo always responded to attractive women like Pavlov’s dog.

“What do we know about her?” Solo asked, still studying the image.

“She’s wealthy. She’s ambitious. Reportedly shrewd; tougher and more dangerous than she looks. And of course, she’s Thrush.”

“I mean, do we know any personal details? Likes, dislikes? Habits?” He turned to Kuryakin. “I assume the plan is for me to seduce her and gain access to the villa. Unless, you were thinking of doing the honors.”

The Russian agent held up his hands in defense. “Oh no, thank you. You are very welcome to her.” He consulted the sheaf of papers again, searching for the personality profile prepared by Section IV.  “Let’s see... the intel says she’s a perfectionist and extremely vain. Apparently, the woman has never met a mirror she didn’t like.”

 _No surprise_ , Solo thought, still sizing up the photo in order to tap into his own instincts.

“She also likes to shop.”

“What woman doesn’t?”

“And something else... the Thrush gossip is that she’s notoriously unresponsive.”

“Unresponsive?”

“In colloquial terms, I think the American word is ‘frigid.’ ”

Kuryakin handed the profile to Solo who frowned as he scanned it.

“A virgin?”

“The evidence indicates otherwise.”

“Maybe she just prefers women.”

“Judging by surveillance reports and the opinions of several male Thrush chiefs who’ve attempted to romance her, no, she’s not a lesbian.”

“Well, you can’t really blame her for not being receptive,” Solo observed. “Most of them are perverts anyway.”

Kuryakin heard the implication behind the musing: _But under the right circumstances, with the right man, maybe..._

“How long do I have to gain her confidence?”

“Ummm...” Kuryakin hesitated, not wanting to answer. “About 18 hours. We have to steal the diamond tonight.”

“ _Tonight_?” Solo set down his cup of espresso with a loud clatter. Nearby, a flock of browsing pigeons stirred. 

“The buyer is scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning. It’s the annual _festa patronale_ , remember?” Every year, Portofino celebrated San Giorgio, its patron saint, on the first Sunday in April. Kuryakin sat back in his seat, beaming a rare smile. “Well, you always say you like a challenge.”

“Yeah, but— _18 hours_.” Solo still couldn’t fully contain his exasperation. He glanced up to the cliffs again. “And she lives on the side of a mountain. It’s probably a fortress.”

“Security is very tight, yes.”

 “How do we know it’s definitely in her safe anyway?”

“Because a jewel thief posing as a maid tried to steal it last week. She was caught, and turned over to the local authorities who allowed her to be questioned by Interpol as part of a plea bargain. Since Thrush was involved, they passed the information on to us.”

“All right,” Solo said, exhaling a deep breath. It was show time and his mind was already plotting in that direction. “If she’s near a road, we can use a car.”

“Check. The Ferrari has a false boot.”

“And a yacht...”

Kuryakin looked up.

 “A small one.” Solo shrugged, smiling.  “Hey — where else would a wealthy jet-setter spend his afternoons in a place like this? I suppose we can arrange a ‘meet cute.’ I’ll keep it simple and just bump into her.”

“The usual spilled drink on the dress gambit?”

“No, not with this sort. That would repulse her. I’m thinking the reverse. She might be sympathetic to a stained sports jacket. Where do I find her?”

“She eats brunch on weekends in the garden of the Hotel Eden. Then she goes shopping.”

“Ah, well.” Solo drained the last of his espresso and winked. “Maybe we can offer her something better to occupy the afternoon.”

 

***

It was more than a simple game, this seduction business, but rather a kind of elaborate production, one they’d collaborated on before, although never for such high stakes. Solo’s usual task was to come up with the general concept and lay down the plotline. And while they thrashed out the details, it was then Kuryakin’s turn to assume the role of interlocutor, questioning every assumption, theorizing every possible eventuality, poking at logic holes that might bring the whole affair crashing down upon their heads and, not so incidentally, end their lives.

But the timetable for this mission was unusually tight and the prep period uncomfortably short, so they did double duty, talking while they worked, bouncing ideas and playing devil’s advocate to each other as they spent the rest of the morning making reservations, contracting for services and, in two instances, paying bribes in order to assemble the required costumes, props and sets.

By late morning, they were ready, and Kuryakin retreated to the compact but comfortable, 80-foot yacht they’d rented for the day while Solo headed for a brunch time rendezvous he would need to engineer. The rendezvous went well, the time afterward even better, and Kuryakin thought his partner appeared fairly pleased with himself when he and the Thrush woman appeared on the dock of the crowded Portofino harbor just shortly past noon.

It was a simple task to pick up a woman in a bar or nightclub. After all, that’s why the women were there; they were expecting it. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ , but merely _when_ and _who_.

To pick up a woman during the day, however, when she wasn’t paying attention, when she wasn’t automatically receptive; to catch her off-guard, to intrigue her enough to alter her immediate plans, well, that took careful preparation and a certain amount of creativity.

Further, their target was no mere naïf.  It was no mean feat to attract the interest of a sophisticate like Narcissus Darling and maneuver her into a relationship, however false and fleeting. She’d probably seen enough pick-up artists in her time preying on other rich women — the Riviera was lousy with them. No doubt, she knew all the games and had heard more than her share of lines.

And so, as Solo was to observe many days later over a bottle of good wine, it was necessary to offer her something different, positioning himself against the common cadre of run-of-the-mill gigolos, like a detergent that’s liquid rather than powdered and can offer a unique solution to a vexing problem like ring around the collar.

Narcissus’ own particular problem, he had guessed correctly, was ennui. She was, like so many spoiled rich girls to whom everything came far too easily, completely bored with life. In response, Solo became the sweet, unassuming guy with a complicated back story which he then proceeded to dole out in morsels for the rest of the afternoon.

Kuryakin knew immediately how the couple had crossed paths when they came aboard and he saw the messy espresso stain on Solo’s jacket splashed along the edge of the left lapel. He didn’t need to hear anything more; based on their earlier planning sessions, he could fill in the blanks.

When Solo excused himself to go below to change into a fresh jacket, it was Kuryakin’s turn to briefly assume the stage in the role of Sasha, loyal and dedicated skipper of the private yacht. There was only one other person onboard, a crewmember recruited from U.N.C.L.E.’s pool of local talent, a seasoned sailor who was packing back-up weapons but knew enough to keep busy and stay out of the way until or unless he was needed.

For a few awkward minutes Kuryakin made pleasant small talk, but looking into Narcissus’ cool, green, feline eyes, he was reminded of a famous quote about an American city, usually attributed to Dorothy Parker, but actually coined by Getrude Stein: There was no _there_ there. 

Why that was so, Kuryakin couldn’t say and, indeed, would never know. U.N.C.L.E.’s dossier on Narcissus was abbreviated and, despite the assessment of her sexual proclivities, annoyingly incomplete. With some people, after much hardship, their hearts will harden, as coal turns to diamond under extreme heat and pressure. Kuryakin had some experience of this himself.

But judging from their short, vapid conversation, Kuryakin would have guessed that Narcissus’ heart was not so much frozen as atrophied from lack of use. She was, quite simply, the most heartless — _soulless_ — human being he’d ever encountered. Not so much evil, as highly-placed Thrush agents routinely were, but unfathomably empty.

Which made Solo’s choice of persona interesting and the interaction between him and their target during that afternoon even more so. For the aim of this little charade, after all, was to win her confidence in order to secure access to the heavily protected villa, to romance a woman for whom, apparently, personal warmth was an alien concept .

Solo’s strategy was to invent Harold Radcliffe III, the scion of a wealthy family improbably based in Minneapolis whose business was construction and whose specialty was installing escalator systems in American department stores. The fictional Radcliffe may have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but as a result of being raised by a strict conservative grandfather and schooled by private tutors most of his life, he was nevertheless polite, unassuming, and not a little shy.

 _And safe_. So safe, in fact, that Narcissus had dismissed her burly broad-shouldered chauffeur and sent him back to the villa with some packages from her morning shopping spree, content to accept a ride back later from her new acquaintance.

The irony was obvious and Kuryakin found the Radcliffe persona perversely amusing, which made the task of showing the proper deference to his partner even more difficult. As the yacht left the dock, heading out for a leisurely cruise around the bay with Kuryakin at the wheel, the Russian agent couldn’t help but idly wonder about the characters Solo concocted for some of their missions. His partner seemed to revel in playing country bumpkins and milquetoasts and even simpletons, the Harolds and Harveys and Marvins of the world. Perhaps it was the pleasure of sidling up to his prey like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or perhaps it was something deeper, an expression of a facet of personality that was carefully hidden. Kuryakin knew that Solo envied — perhaps even secretly yearned for — a mundane life even as he so flamboyantly spurned it. Perhaps this was a way to have one’s cake and eat it, too.    

With one ear cocked toward the ongoing conversation on deck, Kuryakin listened as his partner added more embellishments to Harold Radcliffe’s financially lucrative but romantically tragic life. Earlier, Solo had borrowed his partner’s gold ring and, with some difficulty and a lot of soap, managed to jam it on his own thicker finger. Now Kuryakin understood why. Radcliffe, it turned out, was a widower.

And as Radcliffe began to relate, grudgingly, reluctantly, and in fits and starts, the circumstances surrounding his wife’s death in a car accident before their first anniversary, Kuryakin reacted with a shiver of recognition. He _knew_ this story, though he’d never actually heard it from Solo’s lips. They didn’t talk that much about their lives before U.N.C.L.E., but he could still see the words typed in stark, impersonal Courier font in the pages of a dossier.

His partner’s dossier. Solo was using the details of his own wife’s death.

It made sense, of course. To be really effective, a lie must always be fashioned from the stuff of truth. And Narcissus was buying it. Well, why wouldn’t she? The emotions that undulated just below the smooth, polished surface of Solo’s voice were painfully genuine. Even the single tear that appeared — Kuryakin couldn’t see it but he guessed it might be there — was genuine, too.

“The Method” they called it in America, though this approach to acting was first articulated by the founder of The Moscow Arts Theater, the great Stanislavsky.

Would Kuryakin ever prostitute his own past this way? The agent mused to himself as he guided the yacht through the maze of other pleasure boats. Not if he could help it. When working undercover, he favored the use of disguises, the more elaborate the better. Olivier had famously claimed that once he strapped on the hump, he could build his performance of Richard III from the outside in. No mucking about in what Stanislavsky had termed “emotional memory,” bringing back bitter moments from one’s past like vomit from the gut, then being forced to swallow it back down as if it were some sort of merry drinking game. Disguises were cleaner, purer somehow.

But Solo rarely used them, preferring to work with raw material from his own psyche, as risky as that could be. And out on the deck, he was walking the high wire yet again. Not that Narcissus was demonstrating any particular empathy. At the moment, she seemed far more interested in keeping her hair carefully in place against the occasional gusts of chilly sea breeze. She’d probably never experienced an authentic emotion in her entire adult life.

But Radcliffe and his story were fascinating to her nonetheless. He was a novelty, a curiosity, something she didn’t usually encounter in her shallow, vanity-drenched everyday existence. 

 _Step right up folks, and see the sideshow_ , Kuryakin thought sourly. _The human oddity_ : _a man who once actually loved someone other than himself._  The fact that Radcliffe, in the end, was a performance only added to the irony.

By the time the Mediterranean sun was taking on a rosy glow, Narcissus and Radcliffe had become reasonably comfortable friends. He’d never made so much as a pass at her — Kuryakin recognized the strategy: Solo was going to make her come to him — but he was obviously and hopelessly infatuated with her and her beauty.

Which suited Narcissus just fine: she was accustomed to being adored, not just by those around her, but by the face in her ever-present mirror as well.

“Would you care to have dinner served onboard, sir?” Kuryakin inquired. They’d actually found a pocket of privacy in the bay. Land was in the distance but, nevertheless, still in sight. Solo looked at Narcissus, who offered him a regal tip of her chin in response.

“By all means, then,” Solo said, and Kuryakin signaled the crewman to cut the engines and drop anchor. “What’s on the menu?”

Kuryakin paused, trying to recall the contents of the catered dinners carefully tucked away in the refrigerator below.

“Mmmm, well, to start, we have champagne and caviar,” he offered, stalling.

“I would _love_ some caviar,” Narcissus said and casually slipped an arm through Solo’s, the first time she’d done so all day.

“Then I hope we have at least a ton of it onboard,” Solo replied.

“That’s very sweet,” Narcissus declared. “It’s too bad your jacket is ruined, but I’m rather glad we met.”

“Me, too,” Solo agreed, flashing his warmest, most ingratiating smile. But when he glanced at Illya, for the briefest of moments, the smile froze and his eyes signaled, sly and knowing, that the fish was well and truly hooked and it was nearly time to move on to phase two.

 

***

The mission was going great guns and Napoleon Solo should have been feeling very pleased with himself, but he wasn’t. Narcissus was responding pretty much as he’d anticipated, and while that was gratifying, it was also annoying because he didn’t yet understand why. In situations like this, he liked to gain a foothold in the target’s psyche and get a solid sense of what made that person tick emotionally, but Narcissus remained inscrutable, a black box, as impervious as the little compact mirror that was her constant companion.

Although she spent a great deal of time freshening her make-up and constantly patting her hair back into place, she was pleasant and accommodating, even occasionally witty. Still, there was a shallow, plastic quality to their interaction. Employing a pouting, little girl voice, the sort often affected by well-bred women, Narcissus engaged in conversation with the artificial familiarity of a celebrity who’d been interviewed too many times. She answered questions far more than she asked them, as if she and Solo both had an understanding that it was only she who was truly worthy of interest. Solo had encountered self-absorption before, but seldom on such a grand scale.

So, it came as something of a surprise when Narcissus actually posed a personal question while she checked the line of her lipstick in a side view mirror. They were sitting next to each other in a Ferrari 250 GT Berlinetta — rented but spanking new — and Solo was driving, his attention on the narrow, twisting road that snaked upward through the cliffs past the more expensive private villas.

“You never thought to marry again?” Narcissus asked over the whine of wind and engine. It took a moment for Solo to realize she’d posed a question relating only to him. Despite the treacherous turns, he was in a pleasant flow state, enjoying the feel of controlling an expensive, finely-tuned machine.  Certainly, the car was more responsive than the woman beside him.

“Oh, I did. I came close once. We were even engaged.”

“What happened?” The question was asked lightly, just so much small talk. He glanced over at her, but Narcissus’ gaze and attention were already elsewhere. Any answer he gave would be acceptable; she didn’t care. Nevertheless, he stuck to the truth.

“We had different interests and her parents didn’t like me.

“No other lady friends since?”

As he downshifted, her hand casually found its way to his knee and stroked it like one pets a puppy. _Oh, this is interesting_ , Solo told himself, no longer focused solely on the act of negotiating the cliffs.

“Some.”

“Any serious romances?”

“A few.”

She’d turned her head and was eyeing him now with renewed interest, and Solo had the sense that she was maneuvering him as much as he’d been maneuvering her. An agenda was forming; she wanted something from him.

“Satisfying?”

There was no mistaking the innuendo. To do so would have made Radcliffe look like a perfect idiot. Repressing his own instinct toward suavity and seduction, Solo remembered to appear modest instead. “I believe so. I’ve never received any complaints.”

That prompted a soft laugh from her that sounded like ice cubes tinkling in a chilled glass. “I meant for _you_.”

“Oh, well, yes,” he stammered, “of course,” and even managed to blush.

“Good for you,” she said with no hint of sarcasm in her congratulations. She gave his knee a pat, and then her hand eased itself along the inside of his thigh.

There was no mistaking _that_ gesture, either. But before Solo could decide the best way to respond, they were zipping through a private tunnel with a small guardhouse situated several yards past the opening on the other side. The little whitewashed clapboard house looked quaint; the armed, uniformed man beside it hefting a Thrush rifle complete with scope decidedly less so.

“You should slow down,” Narcissus said. It wasn’t a suggestion, but an order.

 _Uh-oh_ , Solo thought, but dutifully, he complied.

 

***

The security inspection was fairly thorough, but not quite as thorough as Solo had feared.

“Please step out of the car,” the guard said after the agent cut the engine.  The guard sounded American and had the bearing of an ex-Marine. Solo did as he was told, climbing out of the driver’s seat to stand beside the Ferrari. Notably, a similar request was not directed at Narcissus, who was still nestled comfortably in the passenger seat.

“Please empty your pockets, sir,” the guard ordered, and once again, Solo obeyed. He’d anticipated a security check, so the only items he needed to display were a wallet, handkerchief and a hotel key, all of which he lined up on the fender of the car. The guard was carrying a handheld metal detector, and Solo had expected that, too. Indeed, the agent was carrying no obvious weapons, and the few devices he did have were tucked in his belt, his wristwatch, and in the heels of his shoes.

“Do you want to frisk me?” Solo asked politely, indicating with outstretched hands that he was amenable.

The guard glanced fleetingly at Narcissus who offered him a subtle shake of her head.

“No sir, that won’t be necessary.”

Moving on to the vehicle itself, the guard began a visual inspection from bumper to bumper. Solo watched, doing his best to appear attentive as an Innocent might, but not particularly anxious.

“Open the trunk, please,” the guard said, and Solo retrieved the ring of keys from the ignition and popped the lid open. Now it would take more effort for the agent to look complacent. At first glance, everything seemed normal — just the usual spare tire and jack. But the guard was no fool and, with his meaty fist, he began to knock on the walls of the trunk, first one side and then the other.

Solo continued to watch, swallowing down his rising apprehension. When the guard leaned in past the spare tire, the agent sucked in a breath, certain the whole ballgame would be over momentarily.

But just then, Narcissus called out impatiently, “Aren’t you satisfied yet? This is taking far too long.” The sharpness in her voice brought the guard up short.

 _Saved by the bell_ , Solo thought, relieved.

 Torn between professional duty and a desire not to piss off the boss lady, the guard chose the latter and slammed the hood down with a decisive thump. Solo offered him a sympathetic smile which was ignored. Then the agent scooped up his belongings, and climbed back into the car.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the guard said with a tip of his cap, “just doing m’ job.”

“Understood,” Narcissus said, but she sounded irritated and eager to move on. Solo threw the Ferrari into gear and they did just that, continuing the climb toward the villa. Decorative lights dotted the path and in the dim, occasionally interrupted glow, Solo not only negotiated the steep driveway but also stole an occasional peek at the additional security. He wasn’t happy with what he saw. In the sapphire sheen of early evening, he could discern the outlines of a high electrified fence as well as moving shadows among the scrubby pine trees that told him the guard at the gate was only the tip of the iceberg.

“You must spend a lot on security,” Solo commented, trying to keep his tone light — just an observation from one fabulously wealthy person to another.

“A woman of means living alone can’t take chances.”

“You’re taking a chance with me,” he said silkily, stating the obvious. This prompted Narcissus to cuddle closer, shaking off the night chill. She linked her arm through his.

“I’ve decided to make an exception in your case.”

“I’m very flattered,” Solo replied because in some sense, he was. Just getting her to this point had required considerable effort on his part. “I hope I can make it worth your while.”

“Oh you will,” Narcissus assured him, reverting back to her little girl voice. “I’m certain of it.”

 

***

Perched on a cliff with a spectacular view of Portofino Harbor, the two-story villa was even more impressive than it had looked in the surveillance photographs. Solo was surprised to find that no servants of any kind met them at the door. Apparently even the hulking chauffeur had retired to whatever cave or cage she kept him in.

The agent also took careful note of the villa’s internal security system. Happily, it was nothing fancy — a standard wall box responding to a standard set of codes that Narcissus quickly punched in to unlock the door and allow them entry. Evidently, she depended more on the formidable perimeter fence and the small army that patrolled it than on any additional security measures that might be installed throughout the actual house.

And what a house it was!

Accustomed to elegant restaurants and expensive hotels, Solo still found himself impressed by elaborate expressions of personal wealth. The villa was not so much large as handsome and meticulously laid out, utilizing the natural terrain for terraces with breath-taking views. Every room on the eastern side of the villa was lined with floor to ceiling windows, and what wasn’t glass, was white. White walls, white rugs, and white furniture, with a few scattered accents of pale blue and creamy peach. The maids must have worked overtime because everything was not just clean and tidy, but immaculate.

What was most striking of all, however, were the mirrors. They were everywhere — large and small, simple and ornate, sometimes arranged side by side like soldiers, sometimes positioned opposite one another, their dueling reflections offering portals to infinity.

In the hallway, Solo staggered back a step, his equilibrium thrown momentarily off-balance by the dizzying multiplicity of his own reflection around him. It was like a magnificent, magical funhouse, the lair of a fairytale enchantress.

“Are you feeling all right?” Narcissus inquired, and Solo realized he’d allowed his mask to slip a bit, so he played to it honestly.

“Fine. It’s just that I’ve never seen so many ... mirrors ... in one place before.”

Narcissus scanned her surroundings with a satisfied smile. “I collect them. They’re my hobby.”

She led him into the parlor, which opened to one of the villa’s several terraces with those jaw-dropping views. “See this one?” she said, indicating a massive mirror framed in ornate gold. “Byzantine, thirteenth century. A crusader once stole it for the noblewoman he loved. And this one —” She indicated another even more imposing if that were possible. “Venetian, fifteenth century. It was a gift to me from a count. He said only a mirror such as this could do my beauty justice.”

She paused for a moment, admiring her image, content in the knowledge that the count’s assessment was absolutely true.

 _Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all_? Solo quoted to himself as he watched her, but her statement demanded a response and since she was, indeed, beautiful, he had no trouble concocting one.

“I’m inclined to agree with your count,” Solo said, coming up from behind her. He placed a hand gently on each of her shoulders and she not only allowed it, but seemed to welcome his touch. Encouraged, he took the opportunity to plant a small kiss on the back of her neck. “He had a good eye for aesthetics.”

Narcissus sighed. “But not much else, I’m afraid.” She pivoted and wrapped her arms around Solo’s neck.  “It’s gets very lonely here.

“Perhaps you should get out more.”

“I do, but it doesn’t help. When you’re as rich and beautiful as I am, there are so few people to talk to.”

Despite the audacity of that statement, he almost felt sorry for her. If the primitives were right and mirrors captured the soul, the one belonging to Narcissus was being held hostage by her own design. Whatever inner life she had was nailed to the walls of her villa.

As for his own soul, the remnant that was still viable was tucked away safe and sound.  Illya always teased him about how vain he was about his appearance, but it wasn’t vanity so much as professional pride, for really, how could one be vain about a mask? Whenever he looked into a mirror — any mirror, not just this one — all he ever saw was a shell: just one, hard, opaque surface bumping up against another. He could peer into a thousand mirrors and still not see his true self. Like a vampire, the real Napoleon Solo had no reflection.

“Will you stay the night?” Narcissus asked and the question caught him off-balance. He hadn’t quite expected her to succumb so soon and so easily. Remembering to stay in character, he allowed himself to betray genuine surprise.

“I should think that’s entirely up to you.”

He was sorely tempted to say more. To throw off the role and drop the facade. To pull her close and sweep her into his arms.  _Oh, I will make it so good for you_ , he wanted to reassure her, noting the uncertainty that she was doing her very best to hide, _better than you’ve ever had it before._ Because he could do that. Because it was the true source of his vanity, wasn’t it?

But he resisted. Appearing too confident, too eager, might tip her or, at the very least, frighten her off, and, as he had throughout the day, he wanted her to come to him. Later, he would do his damnedest to make her come _for_ him as well.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” she said with a laugh, a high, breathy sound, like a breeze stirring wind chimes. “I think I will let you make love to me.” Shifting his own gaze to her, he found her studying him again, as if she were seeing his face for the very first time.

There was nothing left to do but plant a kiss on her full lips, and he did, light and sweet.

“I hope you can do better than that,” she said in response, and of course he could, so he did that, too.

 

***

Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was completely white as virgin snow and the walls were lined with more mirrors than a dance studio. The sheets were ivory satin, so smooth and slippery he nearly skidded off the mattress. When Solo saw the set-up, he realized that it would be like making love in the heart of the diamond itself.  Well, he could do that; he’d heard the joke plenty of times: _Close your eyes and think of U.N.C.L.E._

Unlike the other Thrush women he was accustomed to, in bed, Narcissus was brittle as a crystal curio, her manner sharp and spiky, her body more physically slender and boney, except for her muscular dancer’s thighs, with fewer curves and more angles.  She was also skittish as a fawn and he drew his hands along her form over and over again to calm her and to smooth out the edges.

“Relax, take it easy,” he whispered repeatedly, like an incantation and she would, for a bit, and then begin squirming around again. It wasn’t long before he realized how she’d earned her reputation as frigid. She wasn’t unresponsive, so much as ungenerous with a limited attention span, adept at neither giving nor receiving. No doubt, that wouldn’t have gone over very well with any Thrush chiefs who were not particularly known for their patience.

But Solo had time. Indeed, his goal was to take as much time as possible and considering how she was acting, getting her to a point of any sort of satisfaction was likely to occupy him most of the night — assuming, of course, that he could get her to focus for more than a minute or two.

“Be careful,” she murmured as he tried to kiss her more ardently. “I don’t want to smear my make-up.”

“Don’t worry about your make-up.”

 “And don’t muss my hair.” When he turned, he caught her stealing peeks at herself in the mirrors.

“Forget your hair,” he whispered, hot and breathy, close to her ear.  But she couldn’t, so he decided to switch strategies and graduate their lovemaking to another level. Dropping down, he blazed a trail of kisses from her lips to her neck; from her neck to a pale, pearly breast; from breast to belly and then, descending, past untanned thighs. She seemed to enjoy that and even mewed when he reached his ultimate destination, but after a few moments, he realized that she’d positioned her body in a particular way, propping herself up on her elbows.

In order to watch.

But not to watch him and what he was doing to her, or, as a voyeur might, to watch what they were doing together. No, she was watching herself respond to him.

 _Well, of course she was_ , he told himself. The mirrors sustained her, nourished her. They were to her like light, warmth, food and air. And as long as they were present, she really needed nothing more.

Suddenly, he felt an irrational rage boil up inside him. A kind of jealousy? Perhaps. Certainly a resentment that he was being forced to compete against something so ethereal, so impossible to beat as a reflection in a slab of glass. He could only imagine how a Thrush chief might respond: with such behavior, she’d be risking her life. No wonder she kept them all at a distance.

For himself, his own immediate impulse was a desire to pick up the dainty boudoir chair beside her dressing table and use it to smash every single mirror to shards. Oh, he was _so_ tempted, but of course, such action would serve no one’s purpose, least of all his own. So he deliberately swallowed down his anger and channeled the adrenalin rush into a renewed determination to win the contest for her attention. She was going to feel _something_ , damn it. He would _make_ her feel something.

For a while, it seemed to work. Her head dropped back, her eyelids may even have fluttered briefly, although it was difficult to tell. There was a mirror on the ceiling as well. He waited until he had her at a point of frustration equal to his own, then crawled back to her, settling in, face to face, belly to belly. Her legs parted and he found his way in, the slide surprisingly smooth and easier than he expected.

“Now what?” Narcissus asked and she almost sounded amused.

 _Look at me_ , he wanted to say and almost did, but before he could, she tipped her body, rolling them over and he allowed it and even went with it, because he guessed her goal.

No, she would not look at him. She wanted him to look at her.

There was no besting her and Solo surrendered with a sigh. So, they would do this her way — whatever made her happy. He rather enjoyed making love with the woman on top, especially if it helped her achieve a deeper satisfaction.

With their positions reversed now, Narcissus straddled him, a triumphant smirk on her finely glossed lips.

“I’d say, once again, that was up to you,” he replied, matching her smirk. She was staring into the mirrors again but he couldn’t really complain: the view from where he was lying was more stimulating than any he’d had all day. “But if you’re asking me, I think you should close your eyes.”

“Like this?” she responded playfully, squeezing her eyes shut like a child. Bearing down, she ground her body against his. Deep inside her, he felt faint stirrings, the distant approach of her climax. He had to be careful; his own was nearer.

“Mmmmm,” he agreed, and his eyes closed in an automatic response. He caught a whiff of sweet perfume that became more than a whiff and more than perfume, and all at once, his internal alarms went off.  But it was too late, for the inhalant that saturated the little satin sachet pillow she was suddenly and unexpectedly pressing against his nostrils, was powerful as hell and was already exploding inside his head like an icy hot flare going from white flame to blue.

He bucked, trying to throw her off, but those dancer’s thighs were strong and his brain felt like it was already melting to slush. He continued to try to wrestle himself free, but his reactions were off, his muscles weren’t responding properly, and when he felt the cool steel barrel of a .22 press against his temple, he knew the struggle was nearly lost. With Angelique and Serena, he always made it a point to keep track of their hands, sometimes actually pinning their wrists to the bed while he was at his most vulnerable, but he’d underestimated Narcissus and been distracted by vanity — hers and his own — and now that error was going to cost him dearly.

“You’re from U.N.C.L.E., aren’t you?” she hissed at him. Finally, she was looking down at him; indeed, her stare was boring into him like an icicle.

“Nooo...” he protested, his own eyes bleary and unfocused from the drug that was surging through his nervous system. Of course, she didn’t believe him and to make her point, she pressed the barrel of the small gun even further against his skull, deep enough to make an indentation.

“Oh, yes you are. That maid wasn’t a jewel thief; she worked for us. We had her arrested so she would blab to the police, knowing the authorities would pass on the information to U.N.C.L.E.”

“A trap...”

“That’s right. And now you’re here to steal my diamond.”

“No....” Solo said again, trying to speak with a mouth that felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Before he could utter another word, however, there was a loud, dull pop, and above him Narcissus stiffened, then went limp and collapsed, her body slamming against his with a solid, teeth-rattling thump.

“... I was the diversion,” he finished, and then blacked out cold.

 

***

_Napoleon ... Napoleon!_

The first slap to his cheek brought him to; the second got him to open his eyes.

“Napoleon?” Illya’s voice was tense with concern. “Speak to me. Say something.”

Solo’s eyes rolled and he groaned, his hand reaching to soothe the throbbing in his head. “Damn,” he muttered, as he recalled what had happened. “How long was I out?”

“Less than a minute,” Kuryakin assured him, relieved.

Solo shifted, aware only of his partner’s weight on the mattress. “Where’s Narcissus?”

“Over there.” Kuryakin motioned to the far side of the king-size bed.  Solo twisted awkwardly to see the Thrush woman’s inert body sprawled across the pillows where it had been unceremoniously dumped. Her make-up was smeared and her hair was definitely mussed.

“Did you kill her?”

“No.” Kuryakin reached over and yanked the sleep dart from her upper right breast, just below the collarbone. “But I thought I’d arrived too late and she’d murdered you.”

“You know, she might have still squeezed that trigger before she went down.”

Kuryakin shrugged. “I had no choice; darts were all I had in my clip.”

Solo tried to rise, but the room began spinning in one direction and the bed in the other, so he decided the best thing to do was to remain where he was, flat on his back and unmoving.

“What did she do to you?” Kuryakin asked.

“Non-lethal short-term nerve gas.”

“How do you know it wasn’t lethal?”

“If it had been, she wouldn’t have needed the gun.”

Kuryakin decided that his partner had a point, so he relaxed a bit and stood, retreating from the bed. “Would you like a shot of atropine? I have some with me.”

Solo shook his head painfully, fighting off the nausea that was also one of the side effects. “I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute or two.”

While his partner recovered, Kuryakin began to stalk about the room, inspecting the layout and furnishings.

“Do you have the diamond?” Solo asked, his eyes still closed, although, judging by his partner’s mood, he could guess the answer.

Kuryakin made a sour face. “No. The safe was nearly empty. The only contents were a Thrush file and a stack of American currency — about $50,000. I took the file and left the money.”

Although neither of them said so aloud, they both knew that if the diamond had been in its expected place, Kuryakin would never have come to the bedroom. Instead, after cracking the safe, he would have returned to his hiding place in the trunk of the Ferrari, waiting for Solo who would have been dead.

“Remember that maid who was arrested? It was a set-up.”

“Ah, I see.” Though he tried to conceal it, the frustration in Kuryakin’s voice was evident and palpable. “So, perhaps there is no diamond after all.”

“Oh, there is. I’ll bet it’s here in this house somewhere.”

“Let us hope.” Though he didn’t sound very optimistic, Kuryakin had already begun to search and was now rummaging around the bedroom.

With the dizziness finally subsiding, Solo made another attempt to drag himself upright and this time, he succeeded. His vision was still blurry and his brain was still a woozy mess. Miserably, he sat naked, perched on the edge of the mattress, with his head slumped between his shoulders and cradled in both hands.

 “You let down your guard,” Kuryakin observed as he worked. The statement wasn't critical, merely matter-of-fact.

“No,” Solo protested weakly, but the truth was, he _had_ let down his guard. In order to seduce, he always did. That was the secret, the strategy, like a chess player sacrificing a piece for position, like a fencer allowing his foil to waver for just an instant in order to tempt an opponent to lunge. It would be years before Kuryakin understood it completely, though obviously, he was already starting to catch on.

But such moments of vulnerability had to be carefully managed. It was embarrassing for a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, like leaving your fly unzipped in public. Even a woman desperate for connection would quietly look the other way. But if you chose the right moments to open a small window and allow her a tiny glimpse of who you really were and what you really thought, and more importantly, what you really felt, you might win her as a friend, confederate, confident or even a lover forever.

Candor: far back in his youth, he’d discovered how women hungered for it, craved it, gifted each other with it and traded for it among themselves. It was their drug of choice and he’d learned how to dole it out like a controlled substance.

But this time, admittedly, with Narcissus, his tried-and-true approach had backfired.

For his part, Kuryakin didn’t feel the need to belabor the point. They had larger concerns at the moment, such as locating the diamond and escaping the villa.

“This is a fairly large house,” the Russian agent observed as he rifled through the dresses hung neatly on padded hangers in the closet. “It’s going to be like looking for a very expensive needle in the proverbial haystack. Any wild guesses as to where to begin?”

“How about her underwear drawer?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Her underwear drawer. You know: lingerie.” Still holding his head, Solo waved toward the bureau, positioned opposite the bed. It was massive, French Provincial white trimmed in real gold leaf, with at least a dozen drawers of different sizes. “Women often store their valuables with their underwear.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“I have it on good authority, yes. Try the small drawers on top.”

Kuryakin abandoned the closet and crossed to the bureau, yanking each drawer open, one after the other. He found a cache of delicate lace, nylon and creamy satin on the third try.  Solo lifted his head and watched as his partner ransacked Narcissus’ undergarments, fingering each article carefully for hidden pockets and concealing seams, then tossing it carelessly to an ever growing pile on the floor.

“Nothing?” Solo inquired as he studied the mess of discarded bras and panties.  

“No, Napoleon, it looks like another one of your little theories is —” Kuryakin caught himself. “Oh, wait a moment. What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

In response, Kuryakin returned to the bed and sat down next to his partner, displaying his discovery. It was a dildo-shaped vibrator, made from molded plastic but anatomically accurate and, as vibrators went, rather expensive looking.

Upon seeing it, Solo allowed himself a genuine, uncalculated chuckle for the first time that night. “Well, she did tell me she was lonely.”

Kuryakin shook the vibrator, betraying a tell-tale rattle. “Hear that?”

Solo shrugged. “So?” It sounded like batteries.

Undeterred, Kuryakin unscrewed the tip and aimed the open cylinder into the palm of his hand. Out popped the diamond without chain or setting, exquisite and sparkling, like a chunk broken off a pale blue star. As Kuryakin juggled it between his fingers, it gathered up the few fragments of dim light and splattered them across the white walls like a dance hall mirror ball.  

“Ohhhh.” Solo laughed softly. He couldn’t help it. “I know some women get excited by jewelry but I never took that literally.”

Kuryakin paused and looked at him hard. “You don’t really think that she actually — I mean, with it stored inside, do you?”

But Solo was grinning broadly. “Hey, you know what they say: ‘Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.’ ”

Kuryakin grimaced, not at all amused, and tucked the diamond into his shirt pocket. “Put your clothes on. We have to find a way out of here.”

 

***

Forty minutes later, the Russian agent was poking his head out the front door, checking for patrolling guards. But the yard and the walk leading down to the driveway was quiet. Nothing moved except an occasional pine branch stirred by the night breeze.

“The coast is clear,” he announced, ducking back into the foyer.

Behind him, Solo waited, fully dressed and with the unconscious Narcissus also re-dressed and draped over his arms.

“I don’t know, Napoleon. Perhaps we should wait. It might be less suspicious if you were seen leaving closer to dawn.”

Solo shook his head. “The more time that passes, the better the chance that security will be alerted one way or another. I’d also prefer to deal with the same guard at the gate, which means we go now before the shift changes.”

Kuryakin still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I can do this, Illya. Trust me.”

“That’s what you said this morning and look at how that bedroom rendezvous turned out.”

“Hey — she was beginning to respond to me. All I needed was a little more time...”

Since this was no place to argue, Kuryakin declined to point out that with a little more time, Solo would have ended up with a bullet embedded in his skull.  Instead, he observed, “Well, she’s not responding to you now, nor is she likely to for the next few hours. Why don’t we simply leave her behind?”

“We may need to use her as a hostage if it comes to it.”

“Then we should give her a shot of atropine and try to wake her up.”

“But she’ll be easier to manage this way.”

 Kuryakin sighed. “You have her .22?”

“In my pocket. Now, c’mon: I’m tired and she’s getting heavy.”

They hustled their way down the narrow path that led to the driveway. Arriving at the Ferrari, Kuryakin unlocked the door while Solo angled sideways in order to stuff the sleeping Narcissus’ into the passenger seat. She stirred once and mumbled, but there was no cause for alarm. The sedative contained in the tip of an U.N.C.L.E. sleep dart was as potent as anesthesia, and had actually been employed therapeutically as a last resort by desperate agents forced to perform improvised surgery on their colleagues in the field.

“All right?” Kuryakin asked as Solo arranged the body into a more natural appearing position.

“Yeah, yeah. Go. I can handle her.”

Solo reached across the Thrush woman’s belly and pulled the release for the trunk lid as Kuryakin rounded the car and prepared to climb back in.

The bolt hole was impossibly small for a grown man, even a relatively compact one like Kuryakin, and he had to roll himself into a ball, almost hedgehog-like, to fit. It was times like this that his gymnastics training came in handy. Not only was the compartment uncomfortable, but it left the agent at a terrible disadvantage.  Kuryakin wedged his Special against his chest so that the barrel pointed outward. At least if he were discovered, he would take the enemy with him.

It took a minute or two to get settled properly and another to close up the false wall behind the spare tire, but when Solo knocked on the fender, Kuryakin signaled he was ready and the trunk lid came down with a decisive thump. He listened for Solo’s footsteps on the gravel, then the click of the door on the driver’s side opening, followed by a teeth-rattling roar as the Ferrari’s powerful engine came to life.

 _I can do this, Illya. Trust me_.

Five years ago, if someone had informed Kuryakin that he’d be trusting his career, his well-being and his life to an American — an ex-Army intelligence officer no less — the Russian would have considered that person delusional. Yet, here he was, and not for the first time, nor, likely, the last.

His was a strange life, no doubt about it, and espionage was certainly a peculiar business. But when Viktor Suslikov had offered him the opportunity to serve his country, and then Alexander Waverly came along to raise the stakes even higher, Kuryakin in his wildest imaginings never expected to find himself on the Italian Riveria at two o’ clock in the morning, crammed into the boot of a Ferrari, with an unconscious blonde in the front seat and a ten million dollar blue diamond in his shirt pocket. It was like one of those ridiculous pulp detective novels. Indeed, he doubted that anyone outside the organization could ever credit the details of his life as anything but fiction, and even then, only suitable for the fantasy section.

The car started to roll forward, loose gravel churning against the tires like strings of firecrackers. With his head pressed against the floorboard, Kuryakin thought it sounded like a hailstorm.

Between the unforgiving noise and the cramped position, it didn’t take long before Kuryakin was reevaluating the choices they’d made on this mission. Underestimating Narcissus  had been a major error. They’d been lucky to get this far, but their luck was bound to run out.

He should have chosen a sports car with a rear seat, Kuryakin chided himself. Then, he could have been hidden where he and his Special would have done the most good. Of course, on the trip coming in, he would never have made it past the guard, but now he wondered if they’d make it back out at all. If there was trouble, if Napoleon did end up at gunpoint, Kuryakin was in no position to offer decent back-up.

And what about that guard at the gate? Was he still alone or were there more? Would it be the same guard, as Napoleon anticipated, or had the shift changed already?  

And what exactly did Napoleon intend to do anyway? _Talk_ his way through? Narcissus was in the passenger seat, and though Solo had done a decent job repairing her hair and make-up, she was quite obviously unconscious. The guard _had_ to notice; the man wasn’t blind or lazy. Indeed, he’d been professional and efficient. He might miss a secret compartment, but he couldn’t possibly ignore the fact that his employer was completely insensible. Would Napoleon say she was terribly ill and he was rushing her to the hospital? If so, what could possibly be the cause? Food poisoning? Drug overdose? She’d fallen and hit her head? Or, perhaps, a simpler excuse was in order: _she’s tired, she’s sleeping, please don’t disturb her_.

None of it sounded convincing, so Kuryakin began contingency planning, imagining what he would do if they were stopped and Solo was taken into custody. Inside the cramped compartment, there was a triggering mechanism, a small lever that would allow Kuryakin to release the trunk lid himself and exit.   He estimated how he would time it and tried to decide whether it was better to hang back a bit until the guard was a close target, or simply burst out of his hiding place immediately, blasting away with his U.N.C.L.E. Special. Mentally, he weighed his options, which were few and not very good. Truth be told, he was trapped and vulnerable. In some sense, they both were.

The Ferrari began to decelerate; Solo was downshifting. The sharp, firecracker bursts under the wheels softened to a sound like popping corn. Kuryakin’s grip on the gun tightened automatically as he reached out for the trunk lid’s triggering lever.  Tense and coiled like a clock spring, he prepared himself.

The car slowed, rolling, rolling, and it kept rolling to pause momentarily although it did not come to a complete stop. Kuryakin listened for Solo’s voice, the guard’s voice, anyone’s voice, straining to make out any words, but there were none to hear. The wheels under him continued to turn, and then the car accelerated. Solo shifted gears again and they were on their way.

Just like that.

No speeding, no racing, no tearing away with a roar under a hailstorm of shouts and bullets. The night remained quiet except for the crunching gravel. Kuryakin swayed gently in his hiding place as the Ferrari took the steep turns surely but at a leisurely pace. They was no need for a getaway. No one was giving chase.

 _Huh._ Kuryakin’s eyebrows furrowed. _How strange._ It didn’t make sense.

They continued on for a few more minutes before the car finally came to a halt. Kuryakin hit the lever and nearly catapulted out of his hiding place. He circled around the car and arrived at the passenger side just as Solo cut the engine. Before he could ask what had happened, he was confronted with the answer to the mystery.

Still unconscious, Narcissus was lying face down, her head buried in Solo’s crotch.

“Oh,” Kuryakin muttered aloud and then he offered his partner a crooked smile. He understood now. He could guess what the scene must have looked like as the car crept slowly past the security station. “Same guard?” he asked. Solo nodded.

“Too embarrassed to stop you?”

“More like discretion. He simply looked the other way. One doesn’t interrupt the boss lady when she’s in the midst of an intimate act.”

Grasping Narcissus gently by a fist of blonde hair, Solo peeled her face away from his thighs and propped her up against the seat. Her body sagged and her head flopped back. She was still out like a light and as limp as a giant very well-dressed rag doll. Solo zipped up his fly and buckled his belt. The open trousers weren’t necessary of course, but it made the charade more convincing.

“This will lose him his job,” Kuryakin observed, chuckling at the irony.

“If he’s lucky,” Solo replied, climbing out of the driver’s seat. For Thrush, termination of employment tended to be rather more permanent.

It was after two in the morning and they were parked along the edge of a cliff about a mile from Narcissus’ villa. Below them, the crescent shaped harbor sparkled in the moonlight.

“So what do we do with her now?” Kuryakin asked, motioning toward the inert woman.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Solo replied, as he scanned the clear, starry sky. “It’s a beautiful night. I suppose we could just leave her here.”

“Here?”

“Well, I’d carry her back to the Piazzetta, but we can’t take the car into town and it’s a long climb downward. Besides, two men with an unconscious woman between them might attract the attention of _la_ _polizia_.” He looked at Kuryakin. “We can’t have her arrested. She didn’t steal the diamond; we did.”

Solo was right of course, though Kuryakin hated the idea of just abandoning a notorious Thrush agent.

“Oh, just think,” Solo said, noting his partner’s reluctance, “what a difficult time she’s going to have explaining to her superiors how she lost a million dollar diamond.”

“Ten million.”

“There you go! We’re not doing her a favor setting her free. She’s in a lot more trouble than that guard.”

Solo pointed to an empty bench positioned to offer an ideal view of the harbor. “Let’s put her over there. C’mon, give me a hand.”

Between the two of them, they managed to drag the limp woman from the car and carried her like a sack of flour to the bench. Solo took a moment to finger comb her hair, smooth her blouse and button her sweater against the cool breeze. When he was finished, Narcissus looked like nothing more than a wealthy tourist taking a nap.

“She looks peaceful,” Kuryakin observed. “When you retire, you may have a future as a mortician.”

“Thanks,” Solo replied ruefully.

 It had been a long night — too long for Kuryakin’s taste — and after patting his shirt pocket to make sure the diamond was still there, he made his way back to the car.

Solo lingered, regarding Narcissus thoughtfully. When the light from the sunrise coaxed her eyelids open a few hours from now, at least she’d have a nice view to greet her. He ran his thumb along her chin, wiping away a faint smear of lipstick and leaned down to plant a kiss on her lips

“Troppo difettoso il mio tesoro,” he murmured afterward: _Too bad my darling_. If they hadn’t been interrupted, if she’d only taken advantage of the situation and allowed herself to enjoy it, they might have been good together. Back in the bedroom, for a few fleeting moments, she’d closed her eyes against the mirrors and felt a genuine stir of honest desire, and that was something. He hoped that the next time they met — if they ever did — she’d remember those moments and perhaps, just perhaps, be persuaded not to kill him.

 

***

**New York** **, U.N.C.L.E. HQ.**

Thirty hours later, they were in Waverly’s office with the diamond tucked away safely into the U.N.C.L.E. vault two stories below ground. Eventually, the rightful owner — as determined by Section IV — would be located and notified. If it turned out that no one had a legal claim to the wayward jewel, then it would be donated to a worthy museum. Representatives from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, renowned for its gem collection, had already been contacted.

“You’ll be interested to know,” Waverly said between puffs of his pipe, “that funds from the sale of the diamond were earmarked for Thrush’s latest foray into the African continent. The plan was to destabilize the emerging nation of Shanti by setting the larger Mgingi tribe against the smaller but dominant Kiboko.”

“If I recall,” Kuryakin said, “in the last tribal war, some sixty years ago, nearly a third of each tribe was slaughtered.”

“Indeed. That diamond would have financed a blood bath.”

“But won’t Thrush simply file an insurance claim?” Solo asked, changing the subject. It was too early in the day for politics and he’d witnessed enough blood baths in his time.

“We have a call in to Lloyds of London to prevent that from happening,” Waverly assured him. “However, since the circumstances surrounding the purchase of the diamond are suspect, Lloyds will have sufficient grounds to deny any claims Miss Darling may file.”

  _Assuming of course_ , Solo thought, _Narcissus was in any condition to file them._

“Well, that’s it gentlemen,” Waverly said, bringing the debriefing meeting to a close. “A satisfactory conclusion to a potentially disastrous affair.” There were no congratulations, not even an explicit acknowledgement of a job well done.  “Satisfactory” was as close to a compliment as the Old Man was likely to give.

As the agents rose automatically, Waverly snapped the folder shut and added, “No doubt you enjoyed your visit to Portofino, however short. I hear it’s particularly pleasant this time of year.”

 The agents exchanged looks, but to an observer, their expressions remained unreadable. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if Waverly was joking and neither of them ever had the nerve to ask.

But out in the corridor, they took their time going back to their respective offices, basking in the knowledge that a lot of African children would still be alive six months from now because of them.

“Something on your mind?” Kuryakin asked. Since their return, his partner had seemed preoccupied and uncharacteristically quiet. Although he didn’t say so, Kuryakin guessed that Solo might be concerned about what would happen to Narcissus. True, she’d tried to kill him, but then, Napoleon seldom let such a small matter as premeditated murder get in the way of romance.  Back in Portofino, Kuryakin had seen Napoleon kiss the sleeping Thrush woman and had wondered what it meant.

But it wasn’t Narcissus’ fate that was occupying Solo’s thoughts at the moment. “With all the disguises and roles and false identities we take on,” he mused aloud, “do you ever worry that you’ll lose yourself? That you’ll forget who you really are?”

Kuryakin shook his head. “No,” he said, soberly and firmly. “I know exactly who I am.” Not to mention what it was that formed him _._ And if he ever forgot, there were plenty of memories, many painful but some not, stored in his heart to remind him. He paused. “Why? Do you worry?”

“Sometimes.”  Solo glanced over at his reflection in the steel wall. Back in the villa, in Narcissus’ mirrors, his image had been sharp and clear, but not really _him_. Now, in the dull gunmetal grey, he could make out his general outline, but the rest was a blur. Hazy and indistinct, it felt truer somehow — a shell poised to begin a new metamorphosis. Ironic, that he could recognize himself better in steel than in glass. “Sometimes, I don’t know who I’m looking at any more.”

Kuryakin didn’t know how to respond — Solo seemed genuinely disturbed — so he groped for some words of compensation. “But what Mr. Waverly told us back there, in his office. That makes it all right somehow, yes?”

Solo turned as if carefully considering the statement, and then a smile spread across his face. “Yes,” he agreed, “what Waverly told us makes it all right. In fact, it makes it _just fine_.”

Then he gave his partner’s shoulder a pat and said, “C’mon. Let’s go get some breakfast.”

             

 


End file.
